


Tailored and Tamed

by sandunder



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Birthday Present, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:36:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder/pseuds/sandunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What birthday present will Harold Finch give John Reese this time? And the next time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tailored and Tamed

**Author's Note:**

> *It starts from a dream of mine in July or August. Yes I dreamt of the billionaire giving ex-op birthday gifts.
> 
> *English is not my mother tongue. No beta. I haven’t written any fiction of any sort for about seven or eight years. And this is definitely my first fiction in English. So, consider yourselves warned, dear readers, I mean, if any.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Reese.”

Frankly speaking, Reese has seen this coming. After all, his current employer is a considerate and generous gentleman. Now that he received a spacious loft by the Central Park as a gift for his first birthday during the employment, how could he expect nothing for the second one? Nevertheless, Reese looks suspiciously at the delicately wrapped big box on the table in the Library. Surely Harold won’t give him a whole box of keys this time, will he?

Under Finch’s encouraging gaze, he picks up the box, which is way heavier than he has thought. He cannot hide his curiosity in his bluish eyes. He rips the wrappings and opens the box. Inside it is a fine black leather album. Reese cannot help laughing when he opens the album: “Have to admit that I know little about eccentric billionaires. Seriously, Finch, you give people MONEY as birthday presents?”

His employer grumbles with a serious face. “Please allow me to point out, Mr. Reese, that although what you are holding are of value, they are not currency in any sense. In other words, they will support you financially if you ever become bankrupt or something, provided that you make a wise decision by going to the pawnshops. Don’t you ever imagine going into McDonalds or Starbucks to purchase a piece of chicken loaf or a cup of Frappuccino with them, unless the cashiers happen to agree with business operation on a barter basis.”

Reese replies absent-mindedly: “Why should I choose Frappuccino over Latte?”

“It is merely an example, Mr. Reese.” Finch says dryly. 

Reese flips page over page and glances over these coins that “are not currency in any sense”. The first few pages contain small round gold coins, followed by pages of red bronze coins, then by coins made of black metal that he believes is some kind of alloy steel. 

Finch once claimed: “I know exactly everything about you, Mr. Reese.” So he should be fully aware that Reese is not a numismatist. CIA offered Reese numerous opportunities of international traveling, mostly to Europe, but other places as well, until his career as an agent was abruptly brought to an end by a cruise missile in China, the mysterious oriental country. But he does not have the habit of coin collection while he travels. To be more exact, Reese does not collect anything any more. He was an operative, which makes him excel at finding other people’s secrets in a very short time. But that brings a disadvantage as well: He lacks sense of security because he knows how easily secrets can be revealed. He is not sure where to hoard all his secrets and how to keep them from being discovered. Under the bed? In a refrigerator? Behind the heating vent? Or in the secret interlayer of a jewelry box? All those would work, if he is playing hide-and-seek with a bunch of school children. But to well trained agents? They are nothing but jokes, readily to be discovered within a couple of minutes. Besides, Reese always travels light. Again, occupational habit. He is quite sure that there will be no hoarders or collecting manias if everyone realizes that he would leave, both literally and metaphorically, at any minute. 

He stares at a gold coin. 

Harold Finch is not only a billionaire, but also a genius. Unlike ordinary people, geniuses do things with meanings deeper than they appear. Since he didn’t give him a job, but a purpose, not an apartment, but a home, or something closest to a home, the second birthday present must be more than money. 

Finch looks at the other man. For some unknown reason, the other man’s facial expression hardens at some point. But it softens now, after he carefully examines a coin through the transparent plastics. He arches his eyebrow, his surprise unconfined. Reese recognizes the chubby image on the coin. It’s the baby girl, Leila. He then turns to another page, examining other coins. Every coin has someone's face on it, all different yet familiar to him. Their numbers. 

Finally, Reese says: “I am flattered and impressed, Finch.” His lips twitches upward. “Are these gifts tailored and exclusively for me? So, you also own a mint?”

Finch shrugs. No comment. 

“Very nice gifts, Finch. By the way, whoever does these drawings, he is good. The portraits captures our numbers' distinctive features.”

“I should thank you for your compliments, Mr. Reese.” Finch says without any particular expression. 

Now Reese’s eyebrows are arched to a dangerous level. “What do you mean? YOU did the drawing?”

“Why not? If the Man in the Suit is capable of cooking Moqueca de ovos, no doubt that an IT geek can do some drawing in his spare time.”

Reese mutters with a smile: “Sure. Why not. Your capabilities are limitless. Just like your mysteries.” Judging from his tone and smile, Reese doesn’t seem like complaining about him being paranoid or reserved, so Finch lets it go.

He steps over and stands shoulder to shoulder with Reese. They both look down at the album. Reese’s slender finger sweeps over each tailor-made coin. Neither of them speaks, but they both know that each coin represents an irrelevant number, a date, a story, a success achieved in their partnership, a salvation of someone’s life, or, a redemption of their own sin. They watch all these three hundred seventy three coins, equalling all lives they have saved for the past twenty-eight months. 

Finch is very detail-oriented. All blond numbers are on gold coins, those with dark hair on alloy steel coins and red-haired ones are on the red bronze ones. 

Reese turns round to face Finch, his smile now widened into a grin. “So, my collection worths more if we save more blond numbers in the future?”

Finch rolls his eyes.“You are never the one that gives us numbers, Mr. Reese, in case you forget. You are only an asset...though incredibly capable and efficiente.”

“Anyway, how did you get this idea in the first place?”

“Well, honestly, Mr. Reese, I thought of it before I met you.” Finch never lies to John Reese. But he withholds the fact that he doesn’t mean to give them to Reese so early, not until either himself or Reese terminates their partnership. Reese is amazingly good in field, but the job of saving strangers is not. To do himself justice, the job he offers is generously paid. But the hours are irregular, and the job appears not decent at all, especially to law enforcement, and it is certainly not the kind of job that one wishes to hold until he reaches his retirement age. Too many risks and uncertainties. Finch expects Reese to stay with him as his partner for at least three years. Of course, the longer the better to Finch. However, he didn’t think of working with the ex-operative for more than ten years. In Reese’s line of work, any man aged forty-eight would be too senior. Finch decided that when that day comes, or if Reese gets tired of chasing after persons of interest and decides that he should live a life not for others but for himself and not for hatred but for pleasure, he would give such coins to his employee as a meaningful goodbye gift, reminding him of and rewarding him for what he has done. It sounded a perfect idea, until Finch doesn’t want to save the chance for a goodbye any more. He would like their partnership to be indefinite and there to be no goodbye. 

Reese sighs. “You know, Finch, before I kill,” Like an eclipse, the “k” word eats away the luster on Reese’s face, “I also heal.”Finch kind of likes the word “heal”, because the “ea” in the word lasts longer than “i” in “kill”, which almost forms a smile on Reese’s lips. “I even earned several medals for it.”

No, not just several. Eighteen, to be exact. Finch says to himself. If needed, Finch can name each of them and how and when Reese earned it. 

“They are gone now.”

Finch doesn’t need to ask how. It is standard procedure that when someone is presumed dead without surviving relatives, all his belongings will become unclaimed properties and be auctioned eventually. 

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. Those medals, I don’t deserve them any more the moment I realize that what kind of beast I have become.”

Finch protests mildly: “I would not say that, Mr. Reese. You are not beast. If you are, what am I then? Some funny zoo keeper?”

Reese smiles: “Nay. No zoo keeper, Finch. You are the dragon tamer.”

They both flinch at Reese’s metaphor. 

Reese continues: “I never though that I could have a second chance to become someone good again.” He paused for a moment, but refrains from saying “thank you” to Finch. Those two words can be saved for more critical situations. “I certainly never thought that I would get medals again, and so many of them.” He points at the album. Three hundred and seventy three medals. His smile is genuine, not those smirks or half smiles he gives all the time. 

This is exactly the reaction Finch expects to get from the other man. But he suddenly feels awkward. He changes their topic: “Where do you plan to put them, then?”

They both know better than hanging them on the wall at the hallway or exhibiting them in some display cabinet in the living room like Reese did with his lost medals. The coins contain too much information that they cannot afford to lose. If their missions ever go wrong, these might provide too many leads to their enemies.

Reese already has an idea though. He decides to bury them in his spare grave. If he ever goes bankrupt like Finch says, he can easily dig them up and use the gold to trade for whatever he needs. What’s even better is that the merciful fate allows him to die before Finch does. In that case, he is sure that his employer will give him a low-profile but proper burial, and then he can die while there is someone who knows his name and rests him at peace forever with those medals. As brilliant as he thinks this idea is, Reese is not intended to share it with Finch. Death is the inevitable end for every mortal. Knowing that does not make death hurt less. Reese does not want Finch to get hurt. Not by him, especially not today. Reese smiles and says: “I am still thinking.”

Finch gives a suspicious “hmmmm”. He cannot see why it takes so long for a man so resolute and decisive in the field to determine such a simple thing, almost as if there are numerous places for Reese to store his coins. But Finch does not say that aloud. Instead, he suggests: “Maybe you also care to think where we are going to have our dinner tonight.”

Reese becomes absent-minded again. “Thai or Chinese, whatever you like, Finch.” Reese is preoccupied by something far more interesting than dinner. “What are you going to give me next year, Finch?”

Finch gives him a look that is half annoyed and half amused. “Isn’t your question too anticipative, Mr. Reese? Besides, what makes you think that I have plans for your next birthday?”

“Come on, Finch. I know you well. You would premeditate at least ten steps before you make a move. If you ask me, I would say that you have a list of gifts for my birthday until I turn ninety.”

“I do wish you health and longevity like that.” Finch mutters. “But that is not for discussion today.”

“Please, Harold.” Reese keeps pleading. So the CIA’s remarks are right about this man being persistent. “At least tell me that there won’t be more coins. No offense, Finch, I love them, but I will expect something totally new.”

“No, no more coins.” Finch agrees. As the creator of an omniscient Machine, how could he be so uncreative as to give the same gift two years in a row? “More coins would be a pattern. And…patterns are predictable and dangerous.” 

In fact, at this moment, no one in this world, not even the Machine with one thousand eyes and one thousand ears, knows what Reese is going to get for his next birthday, except for Finch. And even Finch would not foresee how cheerful Reese will be when he meets an old friend of his. His Purple Heart, awarded on October 28, 1997, and auctioned in Puyallup, Washington on July 5, 2010 and bought by a Harold Kormoran.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not sure if there is such auction in Washington, but let's assume there is. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
